"There is the Saracen's head of Sir Bernard Brocas," quoth he.
"I saw him last at the ruffle at Poictiers some ten years back,
when he bore himself like a man. He is the master of the King's
horse, and can sing a right jovial stave, though in that he
cannot come nigh to Sir John Chandos, who is first at the board
or in the saddle. Three martlets on a field azure, that must be
one of the Luttrells. By the crescent upon it, it should be the
second son of old Sir Hugh, who had a bolt through his ankle at
the intaking of Romorantin, he having rushed into the fray ere
his squire had time to clasp his solleret to his greave. There
too is the hackle which is the old device of the De Brays. I
have served under Sir Thomas de Bray, who was as jolly as a pie,
and a lusty swordsman until he got too fat for his harness."
So the archer gossiped as the three wayfarers threaded their way
among the stamping horses, the busy grooms, and the knots of
pages and squires who disputed over the merits of their masters'
horses and deer-hounds. As they passed the old church, which
stood upon a mound at the left-hand side of the village street
the door was flung open, and a stream of worshippers wound down
the sloping path, coming from the morning mass, all chattering
like a cloud of jays.
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